


Nay, slay me now; nay, for I will be slain; Pluck thy red pleasure from the teeth of pain

by Alana



Category: Original Work
Genre: Character Death, Gen, one entire use of misogynistic language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-23 10:15:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23009908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alana/pseuds/Alana
Summary: The old lord, spilled like porridge over the ground, breaths his last, and falls deathly still. Zana falls to a knee, and places a hand over her heart, and says, "Long may you live, my mistress."
Relationships: Girl Who Killed The Dark Lord & her new inherited chief minion
Comments: 6
Kudos: 30
Collections: Writing Rainbow Red





	Nay, slay me now; nay, for I will be slain; Pluck thy red pleasure from the teeth of pain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StormyDaze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormyDaze/gifts).



The new dark lord is very... young.

Not a child, but Zana had seen her trembling through the halls, head down, hair in her eyes, shoulders hunched; in the five or six years since she'd arrived in the palace, her pose hadn't changed, and so her growth had gone unnoticed. Now, looming over the Dark Lord, a sword red on the floor between them, she stands straight and tall and trembling, and Zana can see that she is an adult, but barely; her face has shadows under her eyes, her cheeks are thin, but there are no lines etched into her face, no silver in her hair, no bones nor veins standing from her bloody hands.

The old lord, spilled like porridge over the ground, breaths his last, and falls deathly still. Zana falls to a knee, and places a hand over her heart, and says, "Long may you live, my mistress."

"Oh," says the new dark lord, and covers her mouth with her hand, leaving a bloody print when she self-consciously drops it again. She draws a breath, and over herself draws an imitation of the old lord's poise, hands folding together behind her back, hidden behind the maiden's skirt brushing against her ankles. "Thank you, Lady Zana," she says. "Could you-- I-- I require a bath. To cleanse myself of this filth."

Her cadence is unpracticed, her voice shaking, but Zana nods all the same. "Of course, Mistress," she says to the new dark lord, whose name she can't quite recall, and rises to her feet, head bowed until she's out the door, and has closed it gently behind her.

"Lord Zamir is dead," she says, softly, to the servants and guards huddled in the hall, out of sight of the old lord's bedchambers, their breaths and bodies trembling in anticipation. "Our new mistress has asked for a bath."

One or two sigh relief; some look anxious, or awed, or filled with trepidation; one girl cries, silently. Zana holds her face still, and tells two of the guards, "Wrap Lord Zamir's body well, and lay it in a cool place until our mistress decides what we are to do with it." Burn it? Entomb it with ceremony? Stake it at the gates to show her disregard for the lord she'd killed? It would depend on the kind of statement the new mistress wished to make.

For the sake of what little dignity her brother had left, Zana hopes it's not the last.

\---

The ceremony was... small. Undramatic. But it was proper, in its own way, despite being little better than a commoner's burial, their new dark lord saying nothing positive about her predecessor-- but she did not speak ill of him, either. It was almost more of a history lecture, with no conclusions drawn, only a mild reporting of the facts as they were known.

When it was over, the pyre was lit, and the flames licked up to the linens wound around Zamir's corpse, turning the creamy fabric black. They stood in silence, Zana behind her new mistress' shoulder, and watched the girl's hands, where she was digging her nails into her palms, knuckles as white as her clothes with tension.

Few had come to the funeral. Zamir's wife, dry-eyed and stoic, seemed there out of obligation, dressed in breezy yellow, her only gesture of grief a wreath of white ribbons set around her bright, braided hair; there were some servants wearing pale veils across their eyes, and a bare handful knights, their mourning signaled by wrapped shields and masks and poison in their eyes as they defiantly stood beside the pyre, looking half-ready to leap into it themselves. The new dark lord does not look at them, only stares into the dancing fire, watching the man she killed be consumed.

It's not surprising, Zana thinks, that few dared to come to the funeral. Zamir had been known to throw people who grieved too openly over his enemies into the pyre with them, after all. But the servants, the few who had true love for their former master, seemed unafraid of the new mistress.

Lady Zana had no mourning clothes, and had been uncertain herself of if she should borrow some. Like her brother's wife, she had eventually made a gesture, small enough to be unthreatening to the new lord. The white blossoms tucked between the strands of her braids were almost invisible against the color of her own hair.

"... May his spirit lay in peace," their mistress said, lowly, once the fire was too bright to look into easily, and turned away. Across the pyre, the few mourners could hardly have heard the words over the roar, but her movement drew the eye, and those who would leave before the fire died left, Zamir's wife first among them. Zana, with only a moment's hesitation, turns to follow her mistress, following with lowered-eyed obedience as they retreated to a parlor, where she poured tea for the mistress, and the mistress stared into the undrunk cup until it grew cold, the room silent except for the faint sounds of fire.

\---

It is only a week later that the mistress looks up and tells Zana, with false confidence in her voice, "You can call me Daisy, you know."

It's a common name-- a commoner's name, and Zana says, certain she's being tested and uncertain what the correct answer is, "I would not wish to presume familiarity, my mistress."

She looks away, then, and sighs, and says, "Will the Lady Zana escort me to the library again? I wish to examine some records."

\---

A week after that, the first challenge to the new lord's throne came in the form of a beastly man, scales snaking up his neck and wrapping around his bare arms, who has mysteriously slipped by some knights without raising an alarm. He stands tall, eyes glowing from within, and says, "I hear there's some scullery whore who needs to be put in her place."

Zana steps forward, but then her mistress rises, and says, "Lady Zana, would you lend me your glaive?"

She hesitates, because none of them have ever seen their mistress raise a weapon. She must have, for she killed Zamir, but this stranger is unknown--

"Give it to me," her mistress says, sharply, and Zana hands it across, uncertainly.

Unceremoniously, with uncanny speed, Daisy has the man's head parted from his shoulders, and blood spills bright across the black-tiled floor as it rolls into a corner.

The dark lord, for a moment, looks very young indeed, breathing hard though it was over before it could really begin. She takes a few steps back as the blood spreads, and then asks, "Lady Zana, should I hang his head outside the gates?"

It's what Zamir would have done.

Lady Zana asks, "Do you wish to foster fear or love?"

The man's funeral pyre is even less attended, and only Daisy wears white.

**Author's Note:**

> _The flower name comes from the Old English word dægeseage, meaning "day's eye". The name Daisy is therefore ultimately derived from this source._
> 
> Unfortunately I had too much work and too little time to figure out more of this setting... but I really enjoyed writing this start of Daisy's reign of... terror? I'm already terribly fond of her lmao. Maybe she'll come back someday!


End file.
